"You'll 'ave a cup of corfee?" he asked, rubbing his hands together and
smiling ingratiatingly as a dirty unkempt Indian boy (a Tamil I found
out afterwards) brought two cups of horrid-looking coffee and a tin of
condensed milk with milk congealed down one side of it. "Mr. Wilson 'as
ordered your breakfast, and this 'ere boy--Percy we calls 'im--looks
arter you two orficers."
Nothing seemed to stop his talking machine.
I snorted--it was the only way I could express my feelings--and looked
round to see what had become of Mr. Scarlett, who had disappeared.
"What's your routine on board?" I asked, going down the ladder again to
that six-pounder in the bows.
"We ain't exactly got none," the petty officer answered. "Mr.
Collingwood, 'im what died of sunstroke, 'e didn't 'ave no regular
routine--an' Mr. Wilson didn't alter nothing."
He said this in a half-fawning, half-defiant manner, as much as to say:
"Don't you come making trouble."
Mr. Scarlett joined us, his black eyes gleaming, stepping through the
little crowd of lascars and scattering them.
"They won't hang any more bananas on my guns," he chuckled.
I had heard a splash, so guessed what had happened, and smiled until
that petty officer, hanging round to join in the conversation, explained
that "They were a bunch Mr. Wilson bought yesterday, off a Karachi dhow,
and 'ung 'em up there to get a bit ripe for you two orficers." He
looked so cunningly pleased that I told him sharply to clear out of it
and I'd send for him when I wanted him.
I smothered my anger, went up to the little cabin, and began to stow
away as much of my belongings as I could cram into the two shallow
drawers under the bunk, kicking out "Percy", who wanted to help. He did
not seem to mind, and was back again in a minute. If he was dirty, he
had a cheerful little face and a pair of big dog-like eyes. He pleaded
with them so hard to be allowed to stay and help that I had not the
heart to kick him out again.
That "chunk" of goat soon disappeared, once Mr. Scarlett and I settled
down to breakfast. Whilst we were busy with it a European-built boat
pulled past us from the steamer, with our little yellow-haired friend
under the awnings. I almost felt inclined to wave to her, but, not
wanting another snub, did not do so.
"I expect she's going to live at the telegraph station. She won't find
many comforts in this place," Mr. Scarlett said grimly, pointing to the
various square, white-faced buildings at the end of Jask peninsula.
Down on the low ground, where the peninsula joined the coast line, there
was a neglected-looking red-brick building among some palm trees (Mr.
Scarlett said it was a fort), and another, larger and more imposing,
some little way inshore. With the exception of these there was precious
little to see except sand-hills, a few scattered palm trees, and perhaps
a hundred native huts dotted among them. We could see the track which
led inland to the town of old Jask, though the town itself was not
visible. On the horizon the misty outlines of barren mountains rose high
into the burning sky. Even at this hour the sun was very fierce.
Presently that European boat came pulling off to the _Bunder Abbas_ with
a note for me from the Englishman in charge of the telegraph
station--the acting political agent--asking me to breakfast with him and
not to bother with formalities.
"Off you skip, sir," Mr. Scarlett advised me. "They calls their lunch
'breakfast'. I'd like to have a few kind words with the men whilst you
are away." So on shore I went, landing on a broad, sandy beach, where
crowds of Arabs or Persians, and niggers of sorts--every sort, I should
fancy--were unloading those wretched lighters and some large dhows lying
half out of water. Donkeys, as patient as donkeys are all the world
over, and camels, as supercilious and discontented as they, too, always
are, were being laden with bales of merchandise.
One of the boat's crew--a Zanzibar nigger he was--led me through them,
away from the shore and the native huts, through a small grove of palm
trees, where that old fort stood, and across an open cultivated space,
sloping gently upwards towards the telegraph station. At the top of
this was a double line of wire entanglements extending from side to
side.
I opened my eyes as I saw these, and still more when he led me through
some roughly-designed earthworks, evidently meant for protection. Then
we came to the big barrack-like telegraph buildings themselves, with a
line of iron telegraph posts running from them down the peninsula and
then along the edge of the shore to the east'ard as far as my eye could
see. My guide led me to a building surrounded by a strong stone wall,
with loopholes through it, and at the entrance a short cheery man with a
round red face and a scrubby, yellow moustache was waiting to welcome
me.
He was the political agent--Fisher by name. He introduced me to his
wife, who came out to join us--a tired-looking little woman--and on the
veranda, in the shade, which we hurriedly sought, was my little lady
friend from the steamer, talking to a tall, good-looking chap. The
political agent explained that this was Borsen, his right-hand man, the
only other European there, and that she, his sister, had come out to
keep house for him and be some company for Mrs. Fisher.
"They are the only two women here, and it is very noble of them to come
to such a place as this," he said, speaking as though it might be jolly
unselfish of them but that he wished they were not there.
"What do you think of your new ship?" he asked, smiling.
"You won't know her in a month's time," I smiled back.
"Shan't have the chance," he answered. "I have a very pretty job for
you along the coast--keep you busy for the next three months."
I brightened up and wanted to hear more; but the head "boy"--a "perfect"
old chap in a yellow silk turban--announced breakfast, and until we had
finished there was no chance of my learning.
Then Mr. Fisher took me into his work-room, brought out charts, and
explained things to me.
"Look," he said, pointing to the Arabian coast at a place called Jeb,
some forty miles to the north'ard of Muscat. "I have information that
several thousand rifles have been brought down there. The Arabs will be
bringing them across at the first opportunity, and it was only yesterday
that I heard that camels are being collected in two villages not far
from here. It is fairly certain that somewhere between those two
villages they mean to land them. You see that headland jutting
out--look--close to Kuh-i-Mubarak--thirty miles to the west'ard. There
are two creeks; one just to the south'ard of it, the other about eleven
miles to the north'ard. They are favourite places for landing arms, and
those camels--a hundred or more--are somewhere close by.
"The chart does not show it properly. I'll draw you a rough
sketch-map."
He drew a sketch and explained it. A hill named Sheikh Hill (there was
a sheikh's house or fort on its summit) and the cliffs opposite it made
an anchorage safe from any wind, but the creek leading from a little
inlet past the village of Bungi (where half those camels had been
collected) was very shallow indeed.
South of Sheikh Hill--eleven miles south--there was deep water right up
to the shore under Kuh-i-Mubarak, and the creek there was deep, winding
among sand-hills until it opened out into a "khor" or basin, with the
village of Sudab on its edge. Here was the remainder of the camels.
The two creeks--the shallow one to the north and the deep one to the
south--were connected up at the back of the sand-hills and behind the
two villages by a channel some thirty yards broad, but so shallow that
only at high water could even the native boats use it.
Behind all, some eleven miles inland, the Persian mountains towered up,
and passes between them led to the desert table-lands behind.
"The track to Baluchistan and the north-west frontier of India lies
across those table-lands," Mr. Fisher said, making a groove with his
finger nail. "I want you to patrol from one creek to another, examining
every dhow which comes along. I hope you will have luck. Remember that
if a 'shamel' blows, the dhows will probably be driven south and make
for the deep creek at the base of Mubarak.
"Gun-running has been very brisk lately. A caravan of rifles actually
passed last month within sight of the old town of Jask, on its way to
the Indian frontier."
Then he told me more about this trade: how the restless tribes on the
north-west frontier of India will give almost any price for a military
rifle; that they live by brigandage, looting peaceful villages on the
British side of the frontier, or, when not so employed, fighting among
themselves. They cannot get rifles from India except by creeping up to
a British picket--natives or white men--shooting or stabbing, and
stealing rifles in that way; so the Arabs ship them across the Gulf, and
take them up on camels through the Baluchistan deserts. So many rifles
are now captured by our cruisers, gunboats, and steam-launches that the
demand is always greater than the supply; and as, directly they have
been run safely into Baluchistan, rifles which originally cost three
pounds are worth thirty to thirty-five each, the temptation to deal in
arms is enormous.
"But who sells the Arabs these rifles?" I asked. The business was quite
a mystery to me.
The political agent shrugged his shoulders.
"You'd better not ask. We both of us have to obey orders, and neither
of us had better ask questions. Get away as soon as you like. The
_Intrepid_ is coming from Aden in a week's time, and will meet you off
the coast, but I want you there as soon as possible."
"I'll go back at once," I said eagerly.
He nodded approvingly, and took me to wish the ladies good-bye.
"Do be careful," his wife said earnestly. "It was terrible about poor
Mr. Collingwood and his gunner; everyone was so upset."
"I nearly waved to you when you passed the _Bunder Abbas_ this morning,"
I told Miss Borsen, "but was afraid you'd think me forward--think me
like that fussy major."
She laughed merrily.
"You were quite right. You never wished me good-bye when you left the
steamer, so I should not have waved back."
The political agent accompanied me part of the way.
"That looks as if you expected to be attacked," I remarked, pointing to
the earthworks, breastworks, and lines of wire entanglement.
"That's all over for the present. Some wandering brigand tribe did make
it unpleasant for us once, but that's ancient history now. Good-bye!
Look! my wife and Miss Borsen are waving good-bye."
I waved my helmet, and strode down the path feeling quite a hero, my
head full of my new job.
As my boat ran alongside the _Bunder Abbas_ Mr. Scarlett, with a grim
smile, received me, whilst Moore (the petty officer), looking as sulky
as a bear, "piped" me over the side, and the crew, lascars as well,
stood to attention.
"I've had a few words with 'em. Told 'em the _Bunder Abbas_ wasn't a
Plymouth ash-boat but a man-of-war, and they'd behave as such," Mr.
Scarlett chuckled.
"We have to get up steam and start hunting dhows as soon as ever we
can," I burst out enthusiastically, telling him what were my orders.
I expected him to be as pleased as I was; but his face fell and he would
not look me in the eyes. I did not understand him yet--not in the
least. However, there were many difficulties in the way of sailing
immediately--chiefly due to the shortage of fresh water for the tanks
and boilers. Moore did not know where to get any on shore. He said
sullenly that it wasn't any use trying during the hot hours of the day,
that everyone on shore slept then, and that the crew, too, generally
slept. "It was a-working in the 'eat of the day what killed Mr.
Collingwood, 'im what died of sunstroke," he muttered, reminding me of
the latter's fate for about the tenth time since coming on board.